Devil's Child: Human Error Original Soundtrack 5
by Syberina5
Summary: Track 5 in a series of shorts inspired by music. There's definitely, definitely, definitely no logic/To human behaviour/But yet so, yet so irresistible… -Bjork, Human Behavior


There's definitely, definitely, definitely no logic  
To human behaviour  
But yet so, yet so irresistible…

-Bjork, _Human Behavior_

_Devil's Child_

I was never meant to be a good person. Never meant to be quite who my friends and family see me as.

I do all the things I shouldn't. Eat after I brush my teeth. Go to bed angry. Judge books by their covers. Little things, but I want to do so much more wrong.

I have been fighting against this my entire life. These urges I get., I fight them with everything I can find. And frequently I win. Such small temptations like the ever greedy, "does this make me look fat?" do not tempt me No.

I crave sex, drugs, drink, danger, money. I am soaked with this need for vice.

Like Sodom and Gomorrah. Children gorging on the forbidden.

I see beautiful women and think _sex_.

I see beautiful men and think _sex_.

It burns inside me this desire to do the most inappropriate thing I can think of.

I sit in church—one of the many ways I fight my need for carnage—a man walks up to take, communion. A father, unattractive, but not sloppy of body. I have hot flashes of what it would be like to take his dick in my mouth, make him come against his will, beat him. Just there, on that aisle in church, the devil in me wants to plunder

I sit with a friend's young daughter on my lap and wonder how her hairless, clueless vagina would feel in my hands, how roughly I could thrust there. It's just a moment as we listen to the bedtime story. In a moment more the children will kiss me, a favored visitor, goodnight and head to happily dreamed sleep. The family lovingly ignorant of what hell I could reap.

Instead they see me bother to make time for strangers, to pick up trash as I walk down the street. Help old ladies and tree bound cats. I have infinite patience with the infirm. I never grumble, cuss, or beat those who beg for my time. Courtesy, common and grand, I dole out in great measure.

I have striven for all these years to hide those disgusting pieces of myself. Pieces that will never be sated.

They cry out for cruelty. To ram and piss on the people who bar my way. People who do not walk quickly enough for my pace. My extremities itch to extend themselves through those small spaces and break their spines. The heel of my shoe most effective. One cracked vertebrae would be all it required.

I want so to tell people I see they are fat, ugly. People I hear talking in public they are stupid, bad parents, that their significant other hates them, cheats on them, is leaving them.

I revel in the idea that if I said these things, those for who it was true would not believe me. They would argue, demean me, rationalize it down to its scrotum. For those against who the accusations were false they would ring true. For them horror, fear, and that desperate attempt to alleviate the reality rather than the culpability.

Humanity is sickening. I should know I am the sickest person in it. Not because I have these urges—the urge to take the knife you hand me to carve up our merry turkey and plunge it in your sightless eye—but because I know how terribly wrong they are, and wanting them so badly anyway have the brilliance of mind to keep them all from you.

I should be addicted to drugs, have crack babies, and have HIV/AIDS to carelessly pass along. I should have liver disease from the alcohol I want to drink. Be broke from the gambling, dumb from skipping school for sex, drugs, violence.

I should know what the inside of a prison cell looks like on day one, day thirty, day one thousand seven. I should know how to smoke, a cigarette, pot, crack. I should know how to purchase drugs, sell them. Sell myself. I should know how to take money for the use of my body. I should know how to steal a car, and how to walk into a pawn shop. I should know how to fire a gun. How to sharpen a knife. How to cut living flesh with it. I have wanted to do all of these things. Hundreds, thousands of times.

But I don't.

Instead I smile and wave at people I pass on the street. I study things, trivial, that make good conversation. I water flowers, I fuss over the stories people tell me—the nauseating way you drone on for months about one person who isn't interested in spending nearly as much time with you as you spend thinking about that time. I rationalize your fears, your fashion, your faults, make plausible your needs.

I make jokes of the bitterness I feel towards you that you do not see me. I laugh at the silly turns of life and do the dishes for you. I take out the trash and call my mother just to see how her garden is doing.

I take care of people, places, things. I am tidy, I am bright. I am always happy to sacrifice for you.

I take care of you. And you welcome my care.

But I lie. The one vice I embrace with all the fires of hell. I lie like the very devil. And so well you have no idea of what is real in my mind. I lie to you. I will always lie to you

I am a child of the devil

My father is calling me home.


End file.
